Words
by V. P. Penwick
Summary: Sometimes, what can hurt you the most can be your greatest source for understanding...


Words

Disclaimer: I do not own the Rugrats, AGU, nor any characters associated with the series. However, certain characters/settings that have not been mentioned in the story are credited to me

A/N: In case you are confused, Kimi is the narrator of this story. Also, this story occurs fifty years after modern time. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

I sit on the piano bench, my fingers gently gliding across the enamel keys. Thoughts rage through my head, ideas pouring out my ears. But no one hears them. No one sees them drenched upon paper. Instead, they remain hidden underneath the petty illusion I am portraying. No words are spoken; never had they been desirable. But, for the first time in my life, I am in the need for something more. I'm in the need of words.

For the fortieth time, I wonder what it would have been like if Chuckie was here instead of me. How wrong and strange it is for me to be standing here, but for he to be not. The parlor used to be filled with the laughter of children, simple signs of life. However, now a feeling of melancholy rushes to my head and I am weak to the heart when I enter the room. Family photos adorn the walls, and the grand piano rests exactly where Chuck demanded it be placed years ago. I am astonished at the purity of the house. Not a thing has been moved since his departure. I wander around aimlessly, grasping the decorations with a feeling of security.

Grabbing a picture of Chuckie off the mantel, I study it. His features are familiar-the exact same, wild red hair. His green eyes, which were always filled with a playful gleam. How handsome he looked in his army uniform, a courageous smile adorning his face. His young, ravishing wife Elizabeth, standing proudly next to his broad shoulders. I remember the day he was deported vividly. How he promised me, his little sister of just sixteen, that he'd return safely. I eye my now graying hair, with a small chuckle arising from my chest as I desperately try to think of the details. I remember the plane soaring into the sky, his distinctive smile comforting my fears. Words were spoken freely back then, they had no meaning. Now, words are unspoken. Words are the source of pain, the agony of my soul. The miserable things that had told me Chuckie was dead.

My hands travel along the mantel, stopping at a framed letter. The last thing to be added to the house. The paper is faded, the ink barely readable. The letter haunts me, and I pause. These are the words, the words that have destroyed my life. The words I have refused to look at for fifty years. As my hands shake uncontrollably, I reach for the letter. The frame, like the rest of the house, smells of must. I quickly wave it away, and blow the collecting dust away softly. I raise the frame up to the light, and adjust my reading glasses. I must face my enemy now, or else it will continue to haunt me for years to come.

My mind enters a memory that I had hoped to forget. A memory that I had wanted to erase from my mind. It was a clear, May afternoon right near my birthday. Chuck had been stationed in Iraq for a year and a half now, and I was expecting the monthly letter he sent to us. Chuckie had been lacking lately, and we hadn't received a letter for a couple of months. My father assured me that he was probably tied up in the war, and that a letter would arrive soon enough. That afternoon, I dug through the mail nonchalantly, flipping through the never-ending taxes and bills. Suddenly, I stopped as I came upon a letter from the United States Army. I smiled, and ripped the letter open anxiously as a wave of excitement rushed over me. Abruptly, my feelings of excitement ended. Tears arose to my eyes as they continued down the letters. I was informed that Chuckie had been killed three months ago in fighting, and that they were sending his body to the United States immediately. I never wanted to hear another word in that moment; I wanted to just be with him. I curled into a ball on my stoop and cried my heart out. My brother, my only sibling, was gone. The pain was blinding, and I found it hard to adjust to reality. Everything I had lived for was gone.

After finishing the letter for the second time in my life, I stand up and proceed over to the urn with Chuckie's ashes. I squat down, and let my thoughts take over my head. Chuck would want me to be happy, I know that. But somehow, something is keeping me from that goal. As fate would have had it, a light blossom from the cherry tree outside drifts onto the floor in front of me. As I gaze up into the sky, I notice that the sun is shining brightly above. I suddenly realize Chuckie's love, and why he gave his life for our country. As my hand reaches above, I apprehend that there is something perfect to describe this moment. A little something called words.


End file.
